


No Waterfalls at the Edge of the World

by lamella



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Drowning, First Kiss, Fluff, Gratuitous Hand-Holding, Inspired by Poetry, Its Soft! Its Romantic! Its Mutual Pining! He Has Eel Features!, Love Letters, Love Triangles, M/M, MerJon, Mutual Pining, and i dont know how to tag for potentially upsetting biological realism, elias is also mentioned but he gets no rights, look theres a good 500 words of me going Okay But MerJon but Actually Like An Eel, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamella/pseuds/lamella
Summary: Letters-in-a-bottle are romantic, but impractical. They rarely find someone to read them, much less the intended recipient. Especially when there's no recipient in mind. Sometimes, though, people manage to start up a correspondence in the strangest of circumstances.orMartin is a fisherman. Jon is a fish. It's a forbidden romance for the ages.





	No Waterfalls at the Edge of the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desert-lurker (wolfygoeswild)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfygoeswild/gifts).

It’s a splash that wakes Jon up. Not an actual sound, but the knowledge of it, and the sense of something new and interesting to learn about. A bottle, with something inside.

The lure of new information leads him from the rocky crevice he’d been curled up in, up towards the surface and out to the open sea. The line pulling him in terminates at a green glass beer bottle, adhesive still clinging to it in a clouded stripe where the label used to be. There’s a cork stuck in the top, the edges uneven where someone sawed it in half. 

None of that interests Jon - bottles are a common offering, although the fact that it’s thrown from a boat miles off the coast rather than from a pier is a little unusual. It’s the contents of the bottle that interests him. Letters always spark more curiosity in him than nearly anything, even though their contents are typically quite similar. 

Jon can feel an excited heat growing over his skin, and he has to take a moment to calm down while he digs a claw into the cork and pulls it out. The seawater rushes into the bottle and over the ruled paper, and suddenly he can taste the bleeding ink and feel the emotions behind the words.

It’s sweet. There’s a sense of nostalgia to it, and a rough edge of bitterness, but mostly a deep warmth and longing. When he actually reads it, the writing is whimsical and poetic, addressed to a childhood friend.

The strange thing is that letter isn’t for anyone. It’s written like it is, like the author hopes it finds the right person, but Jon Knows it isn’t even  _ about _ someone real. 

A beautiful letter, half-poem and addressed to an imagined childhood. 

He wants to know more. He wants to write back. 

Jon takes the letter with him, back to his favorite coastal cave. It’s impossible for something as big as him to get there at all in low tide, jagged rocks and sheer cliffs surrounding it. Even at high tide it’s difficult to find the small opening, much less navigate through. The way it’s laid out means that parts of the cave stay above-water all the time, though, so much of his collection stays there, where it can remain mostly dry.

He has to wait for the water to rise enough to enter the cave and earns a few scrapes when he’s too impatient and wriggles inside as soon as he can. The letter goes on the highest place he can reach, weighed down by a stone and hopefully safe from further water damage. Jon goes to the large, flat rock he uses as a desk. His paper is damp and tears easily under the pen, but it serves his purpose well enough.

The response takes a while to compose, and Jon’s mind stalls on words and phrases almost every time he can put the next bit down. He still needs to eat, too, hunt for fish and new information, so he can’t spend all his time working on it. Still, between the author’s emotions, rattling around his chest, and his own interest, he manages to finish his own letter over the course of several days. 

He wraps the paper into a tight tube and puts it into one of the slim green bottles with satisfying rows of divots. Chasing a brief impulse, Jon adds a remarkably purple shell before stoppering it. 

Jon brings his response back to the ship the first bottle came from. It’s easy to Know where it is and he leaves the cave at late high tide the day after he finishes the letter, senses suited better for midnight than midday. He spends the rest of the night following the boat, keeping far enough back to avoid detection. When the boat finally - finally! - casts out its nets, he carefully tangles the bottle inside. 

It should find the right person easily enough.

~~~

Martin wasn’t expecting a response when he threw a poem-in-a-bottle into the open ocean. He especially wasn’t expecting a response in a sprite bottle sitting among their catch.

He’s going through the fish, checking for any bycatch, when he sees the green glass. At first, Martin is irritated, because pollution is a big problem and broken glass can damage nets or fish, but then he sees the pale slip of paper curled up inside.

When he’d saved the bottle to look at later, he was expecting some kid’s letter or some curious person asking where their message might end up. Something normal that wound up improbably far out to sea instead of washing up a few miles down the coast from whatever pier the writer threw it from. 

Martin pries the cork out with a little knife and turns the bottle upside down. A clamshell clatters out onto the table. It’s smooth and whole, striped with absurdly vibrant purple over the creamy white. A little odd in how perfect the shell is, but not shocking either.

Shaking the letter out takes a little more effort.

When he smooths out the paper and reads  _ my everything _ , he’s stunned. It’s improbable, impossible, that someone replied to his poem and he got their response. He’s reading a response, though, a similar poem written in sharp, slanted writing. Martin doesn't know what to do.

He finds himself reading the letter on autopilot, going through it again and again until he can repeat the words without thinking and the handwriting crawls across his vision when he blinks. 

Martin should be afraid. Instead, he writes back.

~~~

Looking for bottles becomes a habit. They don’t come too often - on average a week after Martin sends a letter - but they’re always written in the same sharp handwriting, beautiful, and accompanied by a small gift. 

Martin has a bag of them, now, seashells and sand dollars and even a dented gold locket. He also saves the letters, of course, filed away into a folder for safekeeping. It’s amazing and strange, that he’s cultivating this relationship with someone he’s never met. He thinks he might be falling in love. With the writing itself, at the very least.

So Martin always goes through their catch carefully, and tries to be alone for it. Nobody is on the Tundra for company, and the rest of the crew happily leaves him to it with the slightest excuse.

That’s why he’s the only one that sees it. 

First he notices a dark, unscaled surface among the fish. It’s still organic, so Martin figures it’s just an eel or octopus that got caught up in the nets. 

When his hand touches it, it seizes. That’s significantly less disturbing than the hand that shoots out of the pile of fish and netting to swipe at him, or the accompanying raspy hiss. 

Martin falls backwards in shock, only just catching himself. The pile of fish shifts and shudders, and the arm attached to the hand moves awkwardly, trying to get them off. It takes a moment for Martin to realize that the… thing is tangled in nets. They’re biting into its flesh, leaving deep divots and severely limiting its movement.

Maybe it’s stupid, but Martin has always been kinder than he is smart, so he reaches back out. He still stays carefully out of reach of the claws when he starts pushing fish off the bigger creature. 

His first impression is eyes, luminous yellow eyes glaring up at him, followed very quickly by  _ teeth _ . Teeth that are all on display when the thing snarls out,  _ “Donttouchme!” _

The resulting cough should undermine the intimidating presence, but instead it just gives Martin a good look at the second set of teeth, a jaw that lurches forwards into its mouth while the creature’s throat convulses. A thick tangle of netting cuts in deeper with the movement, and the creature’s eyes go wide.

Martin is very grateful for the protective layer his gloves and thick sleeves give him. Instead of leaving deep lacerations, the creature’s claws only nick him before it realizes that Martin’s going for the rope rather than its throat. His knife is sharp enough to slice through the netting quickly, and the creature jerks away as soon as the lack of ropes allows movement.

They stare at each other for a long, tense moment before the, well, mermaid offers up its wrist as much as it’s able. Martin moves slowly, both of them wary as he cuts the constricting loops. 

Three cuts later, and it can move the arm again. For a tense moment Martin thinks it might grab him, but instead it just starts tearing frantically at other snarls. Martin helps, works his way down its long, smooth body, until his gloves are so slippery from mucus he can barely hold his knife and the creature is out of the nets. 

As soon as its claws tear through the final tangle of net keeping it trapped, it’s scrambling away, curling its long body underneath it and hunching its thin shoulders defensively. It looks analytical and angry rather than scared, eyes narrowed and lips thin over those terrifying teeth.

Martin finally takes a moment to look at it, let himself take in more than just fleeting impressions. A majority of its body is like an eel’s, a fin running along each edge and black skin slicked with the mucus that coats his gloves. It looks mostly like a man from the waist up. Gills flare around its ribs and there’s a thick purplish-black band that runs from one hand to the other over its shoulders, face, and the back of its arms. The creature’s face is, well, a face, with thin and sharp features framed by two ragged fins where a human’s ears would be.

A little part of Martin’s mind notices that its hair is greying at the temples. 

“What are you?” Martin asks, wondering exactly how much of this is a strange hallucination.

The response is acerbic and in a surprisingly posh accent. “I’m one of the Beholding, not that it means anything to you. A _ merman _ , I suppose.”

“Oh.” Martin reaches a hand out, because for all her flaws his mother taught him manners. “I’m Martin.”

The merman considers his offered hand for a moment too long before reaching out. When he stretches his arm towards him, Martin notices the fin running parallel to his ulna and the webbing between his fingers. “Jon.”

“I-  _ really? _ Nice to meet you, Jon.” His hand is cool through the glove, the claws carefully avoiding catching or slashing the thick, heavy-duty fabric. Martin focuses on the pressure because if he doesn't focus on something he might pass out. 

Jon scowls at him and says, “I suppose it  _ would _ , wouldn’t it.”

Martin’s a bit taken aback at his cutting tone. Jon’s scowl deepens, and the fins at the side of his head flare slightly. “I’m not stupid, I know what people are like. And that’s a lot of  _ money _ , isn’t it, a mermaid.”

Oh. Oh, that makes sense, that Jon would be concerned about that. Someone who’s a little more uptight about prestige might do it, and now that Martin’s thinking about it, he won’t say the idea of that much money isn’t a little tempting. 

“No, I’m not, not like that, I wouldn’t- I’m not doing that.” 

“Oh, you don’t want anything? And I suppose you were just going to let me go, then?”

“I mean, yeah.” Martin considers his options for a moment. “Although, now that I think about it, I want to see you again. Not every day you get to meet a mermaid.”

Jon lets out a sharp, angry breath. “Is that a requirement, then?”

“Um… sure?” 

“Fine, fine, just- get me off this bloody boat.” Jon starts moving to the edge, crawling on his hands and pulling the long, heavy tail behind him. When he reaches up to pull himself over, he doesn't make much headway. His arms are rail thin, and it’s just too big for him to pull himself up properly. Martin scrambles over when Jon fixes him with an acidic glare to help haul Jon’s body over the railing. 

Jon clings for a second, examining him, and then says, “When you get back to shore, go to a beach and walk into the water. I’ll find you.”

Then, he slips into the water with an unceremonious splash and disappears.

Martin’s voice is miniscule compared to the pressing loneliness of the open sea. When he says, “Goodbye, Jon.” the words sound like they're from another person’s mouth.

~~~

Jon decides to keep his word and visit Martin. It was strange, to have such a civil conversation with a human. Normally, they don’t manage to spot him, and if they do, he just takes their impressions and fears and feeds off them until they’re shaking and incapable of distinguishing reality from an ‘overactive imagination’. He’d never been reckless enough to get caught in a net, though, never had a confrontation out of the water where he can’t move freely. 

Martin had been kind. He’d been afraid - Jon still smelled nervous sweat even though he couldn’t feel the emotions under it - but still kind. 

Still, Jon ties himself in a knot several times over the stress from deciding whether to go to Martin when he Knows that he’s standing in the surf, waiting. The taste and smell of Martin’s skin pervades his senses, and the beach he’s at is isolated, almost always empty save for gulls and sand. Eventually, the lure of Martin, his curiosity and his kindness and Jon’s curiosity about him, wins out over Jon’s sense of self-preservation.

He’s Beholding, nobody expects him to make good choices if he can learn. 

Jon is more dangerous than any single human, and once he sees that the beach is empty, except for Martin, the risk to him is negligible. He still hangs back and observes, for a while.

On the boat, he’d never touched Martin, never been able to tap into his mind or Know anything about him. He probably wouldn’t have, but it’s the choice that matters. In the water, it’s better, and he can reach out his senses far enough to learn little details and skim over top of Martin’s emotions. He’s nervous, and excited. Physically uncomfortable, something Jon could tell from the way he’s shivering and shifting from foot-to-foot, but willing to wait.

Jon does make him wait. Only for half an hour, but Martin is surprisingly patient and stays there, occasionally cupping his hands around his mouth to shout for him. He’s satisfied with what he’s seen after that, and comfortable enough to approach. 

He times it so he’s in front of Martin between one wave and the next. It’s a little uncomfortable, practically beaching himself in the shallow water, but he can deal with it. Learning more will be worth the discomfort. He wipes a palm against the slippery expanse of his tail just before Martin can spot him.

Martin’s face lights up and Jon’s hit by a sudden sense of relief - joy - wonder that is so much more vibrant than expected. His own mouth splits into an involuntary smile and Martin lets out a giddy laugh. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t quite think you were real,” Martin says, eyes bright and clear. “I thought I might have made you up.”

“That’s what they all think,” Jon replies. Normally, it’s because he’s perpetuating that idea. “But no. I’m real.”

“Well, then.” Martin’s still grinning, as he leans down and offers his hand. “Hello, Jon.”

Jon takes it, and when their skin touches, he can pull on the truth of what-is-Martin-Blackwood. Without any effort on his part, little bits of information fall through. 

A dead mother. He’s fond of sweets, takes his tea with milk and too many sugars. Nurturing, in spite of the lack of care that went into his own upbringing. 

Jon reins himself in before he can get caught up in the current of Knowing. There’s something else he needs to do.

His voice is calm when he asks Martin why he wants Jon to visit him.

“I’m lonely. Just, I didn’t intend to get into the fishing industry, it just sort of happened, and I can’t see my friends enough and my coworkers are just coworkers and the ocean is so big and empty and I miss people.” 

Martin goes pink. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to over-share.”

Jon shrugs the best he can with one hand still reaching up to grip Martin’s. “Oh, it’s the mucus.”

“Sorry, what?” Martin’s voice jumps an octave. He lets go of Jon’s hand, and wipes his own off on his pants.

“Mucus. It’s got toxins in it, makes people talk easily. Can’t lie, either. You didn’t actually get any on you, last time, you had gloves.”

“... Oh,” Martin looks uncomfortable, but judging by the emotions coming off him he’s flustered and a little embarrassed, not genuinely upset. “That’s... nice?”

“Useful, certainly.” Ensuring someone can’t lie is a good tool. Case in point, Martin’s confession and proof he hasn’t got any nasty plans. 

Jon has nothing more to say on the matter, really, and even he’s feeling a little awkward, so he makes an abrupt change of subject. “This position is rather uncomfortable, I’m going to move to deeper water.” 

“Oh! Oh, of course, yeah, I’ll go with you.” Martin starts wading forwards, keeping roughly the same distance between them as Jon wiggles back into a depth he can move freely. It’s undignified, but the most effective way to do it. He watched Martin nearly fall on his ass into a pile of fish, Jon has nothing to be ashamed of.

They wind up relocating to a different area entirely, after Martin can’t stop shivering in the deeper water. It’s a good compromise, rocks Martin can sit on dropping off into water deep enough for Jon to move comfortably. 

Then they just… talk. Not about anything in particular. The conversation flows easily after a few false starts, and they stay at the rocks until the sun starts to sit lower in the sky and Martin yelps when he checks the time. 

They say their goodbyes in a rush - Martin says he’s running late for something - and Jon watches Martin as he struggles to get his shoes back on and hikes back up the narrow trail accessing the beach. 

Jon hadn’t expected meeting with a human would be so pleasant. 

He’s used to getting bored quickly, taking the knowledge he can pull out of a situation quickly and leaving the minute nothing else is forthcoming. It’s hours before they part ways, though, and Jon’s shocked by how much Martin interests him.

He wants to learn everything about Martin. Not the pressing, prying need to  _ Know, _ but simple curiosity and fascination. Jon doesn't even want to push, just observe and catalogue and analyse and eventually understand everything about Martin. He thinks he could focus on Martin for a lifetime.

It’s a strange feeling.

~~~

Meeting Jon at the rocks becomes a regular occurrence. 

Martin talks about his life, tells Jon about his boss and his friends. 

Jon likes listening to him talk, he claims, likes learning new things even if they’re inconsequential. So Martin keeps telling stories about Tim and Sasha, first about how they met and things they’ve done, transitioning into tales of their stupid exploits. He complains about Mr. Lukas and his obsession with catching something, although Martin isn’t sure what, along with his general annoyingness. Jon listens to it all with the same razor focus, from long rants about how understaffed the Tundra is to an account of when Tim tried to stand on his kayak during peak jellyfish season and fallen right into smack of them.

Jon is content to listen to Martin, but he gives him stories, too. He’s not as animated as Martin is, nor as likely to talk about something unprompted. When Martin asks, though, Jon answers, long, drawn-out things that are much more eloquent than his normal speech. He tells Martin about the ocean, the normal sea life and eventually the others like him. 

It’s an entire ocean full of things that belong to some forgotten mythology, strange and wonderful and so, so dangerous. 

Martin’s warned off looking for these things, told how if someone is touched by something they don’t understand and can’t let go they might warp, how people lose their humanity to the pull of the hunt. Jon agrees to tell him about them, though, sates his curiosity with vivid descriptions and as much information as Martin can ask for.

There’s the Burning, who are born into hydrothermal vents and carry the heat and sulfuric trails with them, vulnerable flesh scaled with mineral deposits. Massive creatures that draw others into the open sea, pulling them into dead zones with nothing around for miles. An entire society, living in the darkest depths, claiming blindness a rapture and a blessing. Piles of flesh that do nothing but eat and grow, absorbing organisms and splitting little bits off to create more. 

There’s a creature that appears only when someone is at their loneliest and sounds strangely familiar. Jon describes what he’s only seen through other people’s memories, a beautiful lure that leads people to forsake others for a chance to see it again.

Jon talks about the deep like it’s a living thing, the pressure that wraps around and pulls things in, refuses to let them out. He calls it the Crush, Trapped, describes asphyxiating force even with nothing but open water around you.

His voice is quiet and grim when Jon tells Martin about the parasites, rot and creatures that colonize still living creatures. He talks about whales and fish and other merfolk, taken over by these hives, lets Martin touch the little round scars from a close encounter.  _ Worms, _ he explains,  _ I wasn’t careful enough. _

  
  


He warns Martin about those that can mimic different things. Not-quite-right copies meant to lure in prey. Jon makes him promise to be a little more cautious for the first few minutes of their meetings. Just until he’s certain it’s really Jon.

A few kinds of the merfolk have the bottom half of an octopus. Some of them can control and manipulate, using their intellect to make puppets out of other things. Others are confusing. It’s a defense mechanism and a weapon, and they use it like the cephalopods they resemble. Jon brings him to meet Helen, but tells him to be very careful of any others. Apparently, there’s a Micheal who isn’t quite as nice. Helen’s skin changes colors and textures every moment, and Martin is dizzy just looking at her. Her mouth splits into a too-wide smile when they greet her, and the three of them spend a while talking. Even her pupils don’t stay constant, shifting Ws that make it difficult to tell where she’s looking.

Some of them simply bleed a sense of dread or numb people to fear entirely, although Jon speaks fondly of his friend Georgie. 

The Beholding, Jon and others like him, come in a wide variety of appearances. They can pull information out of the ocean itself or from other beings and need to gorge themselves on knowledge to avoid losing a sense of identity under the weight of everything the ocean touches. Each one keeps themselves from becoming a mindless eye in different ways. Jon’s focused on learning and cataloging things, while some, like a man he calls Elias, would rather watch and pull experiences from people’s minds.

There’s even sirens, although not like Martin would have pictured. When they sing, they bring about violence and destruction, and feast on the carnage when the last of their victims finish tearing each other apart. Even those few who escape, Jon says, can’t let go of that terrible anger.

Jon shares other things with Martin, tells him about the beauty along with the horror. He even gives him experiences and images, sometimes, and the pressure against Martin’s mind is uncomfortable, but worth it to understand whalesong or see reefs in colors he can’t even conceptualize after the image fades.

Both of them share the more mundane aspects of life, too. It’s a weird sort of cultural exchange, because Jon knows a lot of specific things about life on land through research and observation (and books that wind up in the ocean, including a surprising amount of textbooks), but also doesn't necessarily know things Martin thinks of as obvious. He’ll go from explaining how memory chips function to asking something like, “What’s a badger?” in the span of ten minutes. Likewise, Martin’s worked around the ocean for years, now, and learned a lot about it, but occasionally Jon will say or bring something completely new to him.

They start to form a routine. Martin sits out on the rocks with his feet in the water and waits until Jon arrives. They talk or just sort of hang out without doing anything. Sometimes Martin brings books, any genre he can find, and Jon spends hours powering through them. When he gets hungry, Martin pulls out whatever he brought for lunch and eats. Sometimes Jon has a taste, sometimes he doesn't. It takes a while for him to trust Martin’s food after his first experience with hot curry. 

Every once in a while, they’ll go somewhere else. Jon tells Martin to bring clothes he can get wet, or a snorkel, and then the next time they meet he’ll tow him out to some interesting place. He takes Martin to tide pools and coves and shows him a hundred hidden little marvels along the coast. Jon doesn't complain when Martin wears a shirt, even though it must cause lots of drag, and keeps questions about his scars to himself when Martin leaves it off. It’s such a little thing, but it’s nice that Jon, possibly the most tactless person Martin has ever met, cares enough to shove down his curiosity just to make Martin a little more comfortable. 

Martin can’t take Jon to his favorite places, or show him anything nearly as impressive, but he brings him things, postcards or polaroids and knick knacks that Jon turns over and over in his hands and examines, pupils just a little wider than they should be. The one time Martin brings him a novelty tin of mints, Jon jumps a good foot in the air as soon as they hit the water, all of his fins flaring in alarm at the sudden ‘cold’. Martin nearly falls into the water laughing. 

Jon scowls and pretends he isn’t blushing and the warm knot in Martin’s chest feels like it’s tangled around his lungs for an overwhelming moment. 

  
  


~~~

Jon is falling in love with Martin.

It takes him too long to realise, and it’s not even him who figures it out. It’s Georgie, who said something about his dates and then stared at him incredulously when he asked her what she was on about.

“Jon,” she said, voice slow and steady. “You’ve been going on dates with your Martin for ages. You’re, like, ridiculously smitten with him.”

After a fair amount of introspection, he realises she was right. He’s absolutely falling for Martin, and that should be fine. Unfortunately, Jon is also already half in love with the letter-writer, with their layered emotions and clever prose. 

His stomach turns over when he thinks about it too much. It feels like a betrayal to both of them. 

Jon is selfish at heart, though, so he keeps writing responses to the letters and visiting Martin.

His feelings for both keep getting more and more overwhelming. 

They’re on his mind all the time, now. He’ll be wandering around or hunting or something, and he’ll see a little crab and think  _ Martin would find that cute _ , or pick up some particularly nice shell for his letter-writer. 

He’s never had that for one person, much less two. Jon doesn't stop living in the same way; he still follows the same patterns, has the same habits. His life shifts, though, just enough to notice now that he’s looking for it. 

Tracking the Tundra’s location becomes second nature, and most of the time he doesn't even pay attention to the little corner of his mind dedicated to keeping track of it. When a bottle splashes into the water, firmly stopped and bobbing back to the surface, full of air and poetry, Jon leaves whatever he’s doing to go get it. He has no idea what he might do if it happens while he’s visiting with Martin, because that’s the only thing that reaches the same priority in his mind anymore. In the hours before Jon can see Martin again, anticipation curls heavy and tight around his bones, leaving him buzzing with nervous energy that has him tying himself in excited knots just to have something to do. 

He wouldn’t give it up, not either of them. He’s in too deep, and they’ve worked themselves into his heart in a way that nobody since Georgie has even come close to. 

It’s just. 

It’s a lot.

~~~

They go out to sea at night. Not to see anything in particular. Jon just brings Martin out into the open water, and they float on their backs, staring up at the sky. It’s beautiful. They’re too far off the coast for Martin to swim back alone, far enough that the dim orange haze of light pollution can’t change the view. 

Martin doesn't know anything about constellations or astronomy, but Jon points a few out and tells him the different names they have. He can only keep that up for so long, though, and eventually the conversation lapses into a comfortable silence. Jon’s hand is cool in Martin’s, just a few degrees warmer than the ocean and anchoring them to each other. His thumb brushes back and forth over the back of Martin’s hand. 

A stretch of time that could be twenty minutes or two hours passes before Jon rights himself and pulls Martin closer. He seems - nervous? uncomfortable? - but he looks Martin right in the eyes and his voice is steady when he asks, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, of course,” Martin  _ did _ let Jon take him this far out. “Why-”

“Hold your breath.”

“I- um, alright?” Martin takes in a deep breath, and Jon grabs his other hand and dives. The water is cold and Martin can’t see anything, can’t tell exactly how deep they are but it’s deep enough that he’s noticed a change in pressure. It should terrify him, but it’s Jon who’s pulling him down, until they’re floating there, the water still and silent and dark all around them. 

His eyes start to adjust, only, that doesn't make any sense, because it’s the middle of the night and the moon isn’t even near full. There shouldn’t be enough light for him to see, at this depth. But Martin can see Jon’s silhouette, and then his face, and then he realizes Jon’s very faintly  _ glowing _ . 

The phosphorescence quickly gets stronger, until they’re both illuminated in violet light. Jon’s looking at him, a timid smile that quickly turns genuine when he sees Martin’s awed expression. Martin can’t help but to reach out, stroking his fingers against Jon’s shoulders and ghosting them over his gills, fascinated. He almost touches Jon’s face, but freezes before making contact. 

Instead of flinching away or just ignoring Martin’s hand, Jon leans his cheek into Martin’s palm. His hand comes up to rest against Martin’s wrist, not quite cupping his own hand against his face but keeping it there. His face is relaxed in a gentle smile, eyes closed, and in that moment everything about Jon is open and trusting. 

Martin tries to memorize it; the feeling of Jon’s cheek under his hand, the slight pressure of fingertips against his wrist, Jon’s beautifully vulnerable expression. The pressure in his lungs grows too quickly, though, and they have to return to the surface after only a few stolen seconds. 

Jon’s still glowing when they resurface, and the waves break the light into patterns that move across his face. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and Martin doesn't hesitate this time when he pushes it back. 

“That was- that was amazing!” Martin can’t help laughing, giddy and awed as he is. “I- you’re beautiful!”

Jon sinks back until his face is half-submerged and garbles out something completely incomprehensible. Martin suspects his face would be red if the purple light didn’t interfere with his perception of color. When Martin pulls Jon into a hug, he tucks his face into his chest and wraps around Martin in a few loose loops, though, so he must not be too upset.

“Thank you.” Martin says, once he’s calmed down a bit. “This is wonderful.”

And it is, every moment of it, until Martin’s walking out of the surf, shaking in the night air, and has to wave goodbye.

~~~

When the Tundra starts to sink, Jon isn’t too concerned. It’s obviously not  _ good _ , but ships leave survivors all the time, and he can feel the lifeboats dropping into the ocean. He can’t sense Martin, and there’s nobody in the water who could be his letter-writer, but the fishing vessel’s descent is slow and steady. There’s no reason to think they won’t be alright. Not sensing them means they haven’t fallen into the water, which is ultimately better no matter how much Jon wants to know exactly how they are. 

Jon Knows about the Tundra and Peter Lukas as they disappear into the deep. He takes Lukas’ fear and grim determination into himself and relishes it, the surge of power that knowledge gives him. He’ll probably be eaten, devoured by the many creatures he’s sinking towards, but Jon’s gotten his share first.

He barely even registers the storm approaching the lifeboats until one of them capsizes in the growing waves. None of the men dumped into the sea are Martin, and none of them taste like poets. It’s only a matter of time, though.

Jon is too far from them. The storm will get there long before he can. The lifeboats won’t survive it, and Martin and his poet will not survive without the lifeboats. He’s already frantic before a bottle hits the water.

When it does, he focuses on it, on the lifeboat it was dropped off of. Martin is still on a boat. Martin is still on a boat, and that’s why Jon can’t taste his presence, not because he’s dead, not because his mind is quiet and gone. He knows which boat his poet is on now, and he will not loose it. The bottle and the boat are all he has to focus on and anchor himself with. 

He has to focus on the bottle. Jon is going to focus on the bottle and he will get there in time. He has to.

The cork starts to leak. 

Jon’s so tuned into the bottle, putting so much of his attention and power on it that he can even read the letter. It’s slow, a growing awareness as the water drips on it, revealing more with every drop.

There’s panic. Regret. The bitter taste of resignation sits heavy in his throat.

He’s still not close enough to Tundra’s survivors when the seawater drips onto the signature. 

_ Martin. _

~~~

Martin is dying.

It’s fine, mostly. He’ll miss the letters, and he’ll miss Jon, but nobody will really miss him. 

The water is warm. Or maybe he’s cold.

Watching the light filtering into the deep takes all of his energy, and his vision starts swimming (ha!) with mottled colors and darkness.

There’s pressure, so much pressure, all around him. 

Letting go of his breath is simple. Easier than holding on.

Something’s pressing against his face. It’s painful, a bruising force against his cheekbone and his jaw, but oddly nice. He leans into it.

More pressure, gentler, against his mouth, and the thing on his jaw shifts, levering it open. On reflex, Martin raises a hand to rest on the waist of whoever is kissing him, and another strong hand around his wrist rips his fingers away from frantically pumping gills.

Then there’s air, pushing into his mouth and Martin gasps, snorting burning seawater up his nose, but there’s oxygen again, and he can think, opens the eyes he never realized he closed. 

It’s Jon. 

He looks more frightened than Martin has ever seen him, eyes wide and desperate, pulsing waves of luminescence radiating from his face. Their lips are still pressed together, but the hand clutching at Martin’s face relaxes after Jon sees him respond. 

Jon’s tail uncoils from where he has it wrapped around him. He pulls Martin back up to the surface, Jon’s arms hooked carefully under his to avoid cutting him with sharp fins. It’s slow, and Jon is so cautious, his feelings bleeding into Martin, his fear and concern and fierce protectiveness. 

It’s strange, that he’s more afraid than Martin is. 

Once they’ve surfaced, Jon orients himself so his torso is belly-up under Martin, supporting him so his head stays at least mostly above the water, although with the strong waves and driving rain he still gets an occasional mouthful of water. He can breathe, is the important part, so he just lies against Jon.

He can’t really track time, but it has to be a few hours before Jon tells him to hold his breath. They’re at the coast, he realizes, finally registering the rough, dark shape of the cliffs towering above the ocean. Jon shakes him, tells him to hold his breath again, and when Martin complies Jon drags him under the water. 

For a delirious, terrifying moment, Martin’s animal brain is convinced that Jon’s going to do something terrible. Instead, he pulls him through a claustrophobic tunnel and then up into a larger space.

They break the surface again, and Martin can’t see anything. It’s pitch dark, and the air is cool and stale. 

Jon shoves him into some rocks, pushes him up them until Martin is fully out of the water. He’s shaking, although he doesn't know if it’s because of cold or shock or panic. Jon swears, his voice half-lost to the hissing that he makes when he’s particularly angry or upset, and starts wrapping around Martin. 

It’s comforting, Jon’s arms pressing tight around him, Martin’s head tucked firmly under his chin. Jon’s entire body coils around them, a heavy slick mass that forms a barrier between Martin and the rest of the world.

They stay like that for a long time. Jon relaxes, eventually, loosens his grip until he’s almost entirely off. When he lets go of Martin, he panics, grabs for his arms and slices his palm open on the sharp fins. He manages to catch Jon’s hand, and holds onto it as tightly as he can.

He tries to break the silence, tries to thank Jon or something. He can’t think of anything to say, though, so eventually Martin just settles on, “I can’t see.” 

Jon lets out a quiet noise of apology, and lets the bioluminescent glow from his markings light up the grotto. It’s not much light, but Martin’s eyes are sensitive enough to make out the immediate surroundings. 

It’s all rough stone and irregular crevices, and all of the areas you could possibly place something are packed full of various items, ranging from buoys to jewelry to scraps of water-damaged paper. Jon’s in the center of all of it, still looking at Martin like he might disappear if Jon isn’t putting the full weight of his attention on him.

“I-” Jon says, cutting himself off for a long second before starting again. “I was scared. You can’t- I can’t- can’t lose you.”

Martin doesn't know what to say. He thinks Jon’s toxins should make it easier, if they can pull out the truth. They don’t. “Sorry,” he tries, but it isn’t enough. “I love you, I’m sorry.”

Jon lets out a hysterical laugh. “I love you too, Martin, twice over even, I fell in love with you twice and then I almost lost you, I was so  _ scared. _ ”

He’s not making sense, but that’s fine, Martin can’t parse very much out right now. He’s tired, so he just pulls Jon close again, crushes him into his chest, and mutters incoherent apologies and promises into his hair.

They fall asleep like that. Anything else can wait until they’ve rested. 

~~~

Jon brings Martin back out the next day. 

Neither of them  _ wants _ Martin to leave. Jon’s still terrified that something might happen to him, and Martin just wants to stick close to Jon.

It’s necessary, unfortunately. He’s hungry and cold, and although Jon’s cave is a safe place, it can’t be a permanent solution.

When they’re out of the cave, the sunlight feels harsh. Martin’s eyes ache from the brightness, even though the sky is overcast. The storm had passed, though, and no more rain falls as Jon brings him to the nearest place he can get help. 

Well, human help.

They end up at a dock, and Jon leaves Martin as close to civilization as he can without getting spotted, with a borderline too-tight embrace and a promise that they’ll meet at their beach sometime in the next couple days. Jon’s practically twitching as Martin walks away, and he resolves to get through any legal or personal issues as quickly as possible. 

Martin’s shaking when he walks up to the first house, although he can’t tell if it’s from cold or shock or something else entirely. Everything seems sort of muffled, like leaving the cave had wrapped him in a layer of cotton and confusion. There’s no answer when he knocks, so he moves on to the second house. 

The old lady who answers the door gasps when she sees him, double her size but soaking wet and shivering. She ushers him inside and sits him on her couch, and Martin feels vaguely guilty for dripping seawater onto her cushions as she fetches a towel. 

He feels much better after he’s dried off and has had some tea (with an impressive quantity of milk and sugar) and some toast. Martin asks the woman, who tells him to call her Angie, to use her telephone. 

Tim and Sasha say they’ll be there in an hour. When Martin spoke, Sasha had gone from quiet and resigned to absolutely astounded, automatically taking Martin’s location and telling him how long it would take for them to arrive. 

There’s nothing for Martin to do but wait, at that point. He sits on the old floral couch, staring at the grain of the wooden coffee table until Angie gently prompts him into conversation. They’re talking about jigsaw puzzles, of all things, when someone finally pounds on the door.

When Angie opens the door, Tim almost shoves past her into the hallway. He wraps Martin in a brief but bruising hug before pulling away to examine him for any obvious damage. He looks haggard, dark circles under red-rimmed eyes. Nonsensical guilt craws up Martin’s throat. Of course Tim took the lack of news on Martin’s safety hard, after Danny. 

“Twenty hours, Martin. Twenty fucking hours and we all thought you were—” Tim shakes his head and grabs Martin again. “Don’t do that.”

He can see Sasha in the doorway, relief and worry in her eyes even as she makes obligatory conversation with Angie. Something about the way she looks at him, like she can’t quite believe he’s there, makes Martin realize he could have died. He almost _ did _ die, before Jon found him.

The block that’s been keeping him from breaking down crumbles, and he starts to cry, choking on tears and exhaustion.

~~~

Tim and Sasha take him to the hospital before they let him go home. 

The doctors say there’s nothing wrong with him, save the scrapes and the one big cut across his palm. It’s a miracle he hasn’t got any fluid in his lungs, but he’s in the clear to go home. 

Martin puts up with enough fussing from Tim and Sasha to eat and take a hot shower before he starts trying to get them to take him to the beach he meets Jon at. It’s barely an hour until Sasha snaps at him.

“Look, you were just reported lost at sea yesterday, forgive us if we’re just a little concerned.” Sasha crosses her arms and leans back into her chair, quiet about it but stubbornly determined to keep her ground. “We’re not going to just let you disappear again.”

Martin makes a noise in his throat, and lets his voice fall into that pattern that normally convinces people to let him have his way. “Please, Sasha? It’s just- it’s really important to me.” 

“Fine.” Martin straightens up, hopeful that he was pathetic enough to make Sasha change her mind, even though that never happens this quickly (Tim is much easier to convince). She adds, voice firm, “But we’re going with you. No arguments.”

And so Martin winds up standing at the head of the trail that leads down to the beach, arguing with his friends to not follow him down. 

“Absolutely not. You just nearly died, Martin, we’re not letting you go off alone.”

“Please, just five minutes! Five minutes and then you can storm the beach and make sure I haven’t disappeared into thin air, alright!” Martin leans forwards, and he hopes his face looks as earnest as he feels. “I  _ promise _ I’ll be alright.”

“You can’t promise that.” Tim’s face is cold, and a little angry, but Martin can see the fear in the set of his eyes. “You don’t know what might happen, Martin.”

“Of course I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but I promise I’ll be fine! I just. I need to do this, okay? I need to do this and I need to be alone for it and it will take five minutes and then you can come down and make sure I’m okay.”

Sasha finally gives, just a little bit. “Fine. Five minutes, but if we hear anything that worries us we’re not waiting. I’m trusting you not to do something dangerous.”

Martin nods enthusiastically. As he starts down the trail, he shouts out back to them. “And, if you come down and see something surprising please don’t be worried! He’s nice!”

Tim yells something after him, but Martin doesn't hear it. He’s already jogging down the trail to see Jon.

When he reaches the beach, he spots Jon immediately, a dark shape moving back and forth near the rocks. As soon as Jon notices Martin, which takes all of two seconds, he starts clambering onto them, dragging himself up so Martin can reach him that much faster. 

Martin nearly falls, stumbling over the uneven rocks too fast as he goes towards Jon. He crashes to his knees in front of him, and Jon reaches for him. His face calms as soon as makes contact with Martin’s skin, his cool hand cradling his jaw in a gentle parody of the way it had during Jon’s frantic rescue the day before. 

“Hello, Martin.” Jon says. His eyes are soft and his voice is quiet when he says, “I missed you.”

“I was hardly gone.”

Jon shifts and looks like he might say something, but Martin’s never been good at curbing impulses, so he leans forward and kisses Jon on the cheek. Jon freezes, but Martin isn’t worried.

He wouldn’t have a reason to be, anyway, because after a beat Jon leans in and presses their foreheads together. His hand is still on Martin’s face, gentle and light. Martin pulls him up onto his lap, and Jon shifts easily, eagerly, pressing closer to Martin like he wants to tattoo himself into his chest. 

“I thought I’d be alright with it, and I  _ am _ , you needed to go to be safe, but it was. It was a lot. Or, not enough. I couldn’t keep track of you.”

They sit there, pressed together and breathing in the same air. Breaking the silence reminds Martin oddly of coughing during an exam, loud and harsh, even though it’s just to whisper, “Can I kiss you?”

Jon doesn't even reply, he just presses their mouths together. It’s a little uncomfortable, painful even, because Martin isn’t expecting it and the suddenness of the movement means the inside of his closed lips gain a tooth shaped imprint. He shifts forward anyway, taking Jon’s face in his hands and kissing back. Jon’s hand curls into his hair, and oh, that’s nice, so Martin leans his head into it a little bit and incidentally deepens the kiss. 

It’s still chaste, but Martin can taste the brine on Jon’s mouth and his face and chest are burning. It’s a little overwhelming, with everything that’s happened in the past day, but a good overwhelming, so much his brain has to focus on Jon and the way their lips press together and Jon’s jaw moves under his hands and the way time stretches out like taffy. 

Kissing Jon isn’t a miracle, or anything. It’s just a kiss, and mechanically, it’s not even a particularly good one. But it feels safe, and warm, and it’s _ Jon _ . 

Jon, who pulled him out of the deep and kept him close until he was calm enough to ask for something and then gave it to him without hesitation. Jon, who takes him on little adventures and likes kaleidoscopes an embarrassing amount and sulked for half an hour when Martin brought spicy food but still tried a bite when he offered. Jon, who he’s fallen in love with, and who loves him.

He’s still lost in the kiss, swimming in sensations and emotions, when Jon jerks away suddenly. 

Martin’s brain comes back online in stops and starts, but he realizes that Tim is yelling, storming across the sand towards them. He’s gesticulating and angry and probably more than a little confused. 

Jon lets out a sharp, determined exhale and winds their hands together. 

They have quite a bit of explaining to do.

~~~

Jon fits himself into Martin’s life with surprising ease.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s still aquatic, which makes anything approaching normal cohabitation impossible, and he still goes about his normal underwater business. But the edges of their worlds fit together neatly. Loose threads tie together in one big tapestry, and maybe the patterns don’t mesh perfectly and they clash in places but the knots they made hold it together tight and strong. 

Their friends get along well enough (although Tim dislikes Jon on principle after their first meeting). Sasha and Tim can’t handle being around Helen or Georgie too long, on account of what Martin starts calling their “spooky auras”, but there’s no actual animosity between them.

When Jon tells Martin about the letters, he laughs so hard about their mutual stupidity he nearly cries. He hands Jon a scrap of paper the next day. It’s another poem, short and sweet and written for him. Of course he writes back, and so the tradition continues. Martin collects all of them in two big antique bottles as a subtle joke.

They build something together, at the intersection of their lives. Martin moves into a little cottage on the same property as an old lighthouse, with steps leading down into the sea practically from his doorstep. Jon takes full advantage of this new potential storage area on land, and moves all of his collections - save the few things that actually would be safer in the water - into the lighthouse. Well, has Martin move his things. 

Martin’s savings are big enough to live on, after a generous insurance payout and his decades of careful spending. He still works, says he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he doesn't, but it’s mostly small odd jobs or things he can do remotely. 

He’s refurbishing the lighthouse, too, repairing it so it’s structurally sound and making the interior nicer than ever in the meantime. He shows pictures to Jon and asks his opinion, and Jon relishes in the opportunity to do research for something practical. 

Martin gives him an e-reader, in a very thoroughly waterproofed case. When Jon first gets it he spends about three days reading all the books Martin pre-loaded, and then learns how to access digital libraries. He spends hours lying sprawled out on his stomach on their tiny dock, reading while Martin sits next to him, bare feet swinging into the water and a mug of tea in hand. 

Sometimes Martin leans over to kiss him, and Jon gets lost in the push and pull and warm affection that bleeds through the contact. He likes kissing, and sometimes they spend hours doing just that, soft and sweet and gentle. Martin only mentions tongue as an option once, which horrifies Jon, who can’t respond with anything other than, “ _ Teeth _ , Martin.”

They still do other things, go to different places Jon likes and wants to show Martin. His favorites have nothing to do with his own preferences and are based primarily on the face Martin gets when he’s amazed. 

He wants Martin to look like that all the time, except he doesn't, because his gentle content smiles and his little scrunchy faces when he laughs and the way his eyebrows furrow a little bit when his tea is too bitter are all equally amazing. Jon’s going to spend the rest of his life cataloging all of Martin’s expressions in adventure and domesticity and he’s never going to get bored of any of them.

He’s content. They’re content, with their life on the fringes of where each expected but exactly where they should be.

Together.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by some lovely art made by Hannah!  
https://vissercomplex.tumblr.com/post/185071026222/happy-mermay  
Their style is so absolutely soft and lovely and I am enamored with every single thing they've ever posted AND they're just a great person.
> 
> The plot (which, by the way, was mostly outlined by Hannah and Eliza, who were kind enough to let me write it out) is based on Correspondence (a fiction). It's also most of what would constitute the letters.  
https://levithepoet.net/correspondenceafiction
> 
> And yes, moray eels tie themselves into knots, produce mucus, and have pharyngeal jaws. I like monstery Jon too much to resist.
> 
> Come bug me on tumblr @lamellas!


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